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  There was only one thing she could do.

  Chantalle pulled the door of Drew’s room closed behind her and headed for the stairs. She would send a messenger to Whit at his La Posada ranch. Whit would sort it all out. He was the eldest of the Hawk clan and he was a cautious man. He hadn’t even written to Elizabeth Huntington in New York to tell her he was a part of the family she had come to Galveston hoping to find, or that she also had a sister who was waiting for her return. Aware that Elizabeth was still recuperating from a gunshot wound and that Jason and she intended coming back to Galveston as soon as possible for reasons of their own, Whit had decided it would be better to wait until he could tell her in person.

  If Drew Collins really was Drew Hawk, Whit would know how to handle the matter.

  Chantalle raised the skirt of her gown to her ankles as she hurried down the stairs. She’d send one of her stable hands with the message for Whit. To guard against a repetition of past tragedies, however, she would insist on the importance of maintaining a low profile when leaving the city for La Posada.

  She could depend on Whit to take it from there. It was his family, after all.

  Afternoon shadows were beginning to turn into dusk when Tricia opened Drew’s door slowly and peeked inside as she had done several times during the long afternoon. This time, Drew turned toward her and she said, “So, you’re awake. You were sleeping peacefully every time I looked in before. I hope you’re feeling better after your rest.”

  Drew maintained his silence as she approached the bed and forced herself to touch his forehead. She said with an attempt to deny the fluttering inside her, “You’re much cooler. Unless I miss my guess, your temperature is normal.”

  Still no answer.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Drew gazed at her meaningfully, and Tricia felt her face flush with color as she said, “Polly made a beautiful stew. She’s really a great cook. Would you like me to get you some? Dr. Wesley says you may eat anything you like now that your temperature is normal.”

  Silence.

  “Dr. Wesley said you should put something substantial in your stomach before I get you back on your feet tonight.”

  “What?” Drew broke his silence to question incredulously, “Before you get me back on my feet?”

  Tricia’s chin shot up. “Dr. Wesley said I should help you take a few steps around the room before he returns tomorrow so he can further assess your progress.”

  “No, that’s not going to happen.” Drew’s expression darkened. “I’m strong enough. I don’t need anyone to help me walk.”

  “Like last time, you mean . . . when you collapsed at the front door.”

  “I was sick then.”

  “You’re still sick.”

  “You just said my temperature is probably normal.”

  “You’ve been sick. Your leg is improving, but it hasn’t healed fully yet.”

  Tricia gasped as Drew responded by throwing back the coverlet and sitting up on the side of the bed as he reached for his pants.

  “What are you doing?”

  He did not bother to turn around.

  He couldn’t look at her. Tricia was standing near the doorway with her hair a golden halo, with her eyes wide and uncertain despite her bravado, and with a fragile look about her that turned Drew inside out with longing. He was only too aware that during the short term of his illness, his desire for her had run the gamut—from seeing her as an angel who was there to save him, to seeing her as a temptress bent on tormenting him. The only problem was that his temperature was now normal, he was completely lucid . . . and he wanted her even more.

  And he’d be damned if she didn’t insist on helping him!

  He had to get out of there.

  “Stop! You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  Drew turned back slowly toward Tricia. She was wearing that plain, colorless dress that only accentuated her pale beauty and the slim, fragile lines of her body—yet he knew how deceiving that fragility was. She had stubbornly bathed away his fever throughout two long nights; had forced down his throat the medicine that had halted the spread of infection in his leg; had fed him; had shaved him. No, he couldn’t take another minute of it—

  Drew took a breath as Tricia started toward him. He commanded sharply, “Stay where you are. I can walk by myself.”

  “No, you can’t. Not yet! Didn’t you learn anything the last time you tried to walk alone before you were ready?”

  “You said that Dr. Wesley wants me to get back on my feet. That’s what I intend to do.”

  “He said you should try walking—with help.”

  Drew’s eyes narrowed. “With your help, of course.”

  “Of course!”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I said, no.”

  Drew restrained a gasp as he put weight on his injured leg for the first time. Steeling himself against the pain, he took another few steps before his leg started to collapse underneath him.

  “Here, lean on me.”

  She was at his side in a moment, her dainty shoulder firmly wedged under his arm as she said, “Dr. Wesley said you should take only a few steps at first, just to get your blood moving.”

  Drew looked down at Tricia. His blood was moving, all right, especially with her body tight against his side and her matchless features turned up to his. What was more, he was drowning in the sea green of her eyes, and he knew damned well there was only one way he could be saved.

  Tricia had stopped talking. Her gaze was now forged to his, and the tension between them soared.

  Drew inwardly groaned as his heart began thudding in his chest . . . as he seemed unable to stop himself from lowering his mouth toward hers.

  He felt her sweet breath against his lips. He saw her expression change from uncertainty to an acceptance that he knew instinctively could become so much more.

  His lips touched hers.

  The taste of her . . .

  A knock at the door jerked both their heads in its direction.

  Another knock was followed by an extended silence that Tricia broke as she called hoarsely, “Come in.”

  The door opened to reveal a slender blond man wearing Confederate gray trousers so similar to Drew’s that Tricia knew it could not be a coincidence. Her thoughts were confirmed when the stranger took in Drew’s unsteady posture and uneven breathing and said in a voice touched with self-directed anger, “I knew it! Damn it, man, why didn’t you tell me you were sick? You know I wouldn’t have left you here if I’d known.”

  Tricia looked up at Drew to see a brief smile spread across his lips—a glorious sight that felt a little painful because it was not meant for her. The intimacy of the previous moments disappeared as if they had never been.

  “I just wanted to make sure you got home on time, Willie,” Drew responded. “Did the reception from your family live up to your expectations?”

  “It did, but it wasn’t the same without you being there like we planned. Damn it, man . . .” At a loss for words, the young man shook his head as he entered the room and said, “Well, it isn’t going to happen again. You’re not going to send me packing this time. I’m going to stay right here with you—day and night—until you feel good enough to ride out of here with me like we planned.”

  “Willie—”

  His face flushed, the young man said, “Don’t argue with me, man! That’s the way it is.”

  Mumbling a few words of thanks to Tricia, Willie took her place at Drew’s side and walked him back to the bed.

  Tricia left the room as they continued to talk. She pulled the door closed behind her and stood stock still in the hallway, reviewing the swift progress of events in her mind. Willie was obviously the fellow who had accompanied Drew to the house that first day, the same fellow who had abandoned Drew at the bar shortly before he collapsed. It was also obvious that Willie regretted leaving Drew behind, that he had suffered for it, and that he had come back with the intention of finding Drew
again.

  Tricia considered that thought. Her weak moments a few minutes earlier would have been a mistake for both Drew and her, but Willie was here now. He said he was going to stay—day and night—until Drew healed.

  That was good.

  Tricia turned toward her room, telling herself again as she closed the door behind her: That was good.

  Yes . . . good.

  Chapter Five

  “What’s this all about?”

  The sun was shining, the birds were singing in the branches above him, and a brisk, moist breeze stirred the trees, but simmering annoyance held Simon unmindful of the beauty of the day. Short on patience, he alighted from his horse and walked a few feet deeper into the wooded copse that he had used to conceal his carriage countless times when visiting Chantalle’s house. He disliked riding horseback like the common man. He had progressed past that point. He was a man of wealth and influence in Galveston—the kind of man who rode in a carriage and dressed in clothing that was the height of fashion. Contrarily, because he had not wanted to draw attention to himself today, he was now dressed in a common costume consisting of a cotton shirt and trousers, a broad-brimmed hat, and of all things—Western riding boots!

  He had halted his horse when he saw Angie’s shadowed figure where she waited for him, and had dismounted, feeling annoyance spark anew at the smile she barely restrained. It had only been a few days since he had last seen her at his house, and his anger had not yet faded.

  “What’s this all about?” Angie shrugged as she repeated his question. “I thought you would realize why I wanted to meet you here. You gave me strict orders never to come to your house again, remember? You also said you wanted me to find out more about the ring that Drew Collins carries in his money pouch. So, when you didn’t show up at Chantalle’s for a few days, I went to your office and told Bruce I needed to see you, and that I’d meet you in the woods here. I figured that was a safe enough thing to do. Bruce knows how . . . close . . . we are. I figured he’d just think I was setting up a rendezvous someplace that might titillate you more than that little room in Chantalle’s house.”

  She paused to run her tongue along her lips as she added coyly, “There’s some truth in that, you know. The smell of the outdoors always did free up my inhibitions.”

  Simon looked at the smiling whore who appeared so confident of her appeal. Never more aware than at that moment of the physical changes in her since the first time he’d seen her, he scrutinized her more closely. He noted that her breasts, formerly firm and tight, were beginning to sag. Spending so much time on her back had begun to affect her figure, too, if he were to judge from the extra poundage around her hips and backside. The fact that she did not limit the scope of her perversions—nor allow herself to indulge them solely with him—had also become obvious. Rings underscored the dark eyes that had previously titillated him with her glances. Most disturbing of all were the lines that had begun to mark her formerly unmarked cheeks—a road map of a lifestyle that might condemn him by his association with her.

  Yes, rapidly aging despite her youth, Angie had become an open embarrassment. Observing her pathetic attempts to seduce him in the harsh light of day, Simon realized he no longer had the slightest desire for her.

  That realization curled his lips as he said, “Out with it, Angie. What do you have to tell me?”

  Miffed, Angie replied, “You wanted to know about Drew Collins. That’s his name, all right, as far as I can tell . . . and he does have that ring you described in his money pouch. I asked Chantalle about it and she told me—”

  Aghast, he said, “You asked Chantalle?”

  “You wanted the information as soon as possible, and I figured that was the surest way of getting it. But you don’t have to worry. Chantalle thinks I asked just because I was a greedy whore looking for the next fella who might make me rich.”

  Simon barely restrained a reply.

  “Anyway, the first chance she got, Chantalle went to that Collins fella’s room to verify what I said. I saw her when she came out. She ran right down to the stable to send Will to La Posada with a message for Whit Hawk.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Angie raised her brows in silent response.

  Simon scoffed. A trip to the stable and a roll in the hay with Will had no doubt netted Angie all the information she needed.

  No, he’d never touch her again.

  He said stiffly, “When did all this happen?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “A few days ago! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Because I was waiting for you to come to Chantalle’s.”

  “Fool! That delay could cost me dearly!”

  “That’s your fault, not mine!”

  Enraged, Simon turned back toward his horse.

  “I’ve got something else to tell you.”

  He stopped dead, then turned slowly back toward her.

  “The blond fella that first came to the house with Collins? His name is Willie Childers. Well, he came back to see Collins and he hasn’t left yet. He told Polly he doesn’t intend to leave until Collins is well enough to travel.”

  “Where is he staying?”

  “In Collins’s room most of the time. Mavis felt sorry him. She told me she offered to take him on for free during off hours, but so far he said he’d feel guilty about leaving his friend alone again.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “A couple of days.”

  “How soon does Dr. Wesley think it’ll be before Collins is back on his feet?”

  “A couple of days.”

  “Do you have anything else to tell me?”

  Suddenly haughty, Angie replied, “I figured that was enough, but if you think I should’ve waited so I could tell you more . . .”

  Simon barely restrained the epithet that rose to his lips. But he needed her. She was his eyes and ears in a place where he had to have information.

  Digging down into his pocket, he withdrew a roll of bills and slapped them into Angie’s hand with the comment, “Make sure you bring me information in a more timely fashion next time, Angie, or you might suffer for it.”

  Gratified when Angie’s expression froze, Simon turned on his heel and walked back to his horse. Mounting, he kicked the animal into motion and rode directly to his office.

  The morning sun steamed the weathered wood of the wharf as Simon dismounted, hardly bothering to throw the horse’s reins over the hitching post before climbing the steep stairs to the elegant white stone building that housed the office of Gault Shipping. He crossed the cool interior, the boots he despised clicking on the black-and-white mosaic tile floor that had once been the pride and joy of Harold Hawk. He opened the door of the inner office and strode toward the desk, ignoring the surprise his attire caused on the face of the slight, bespectacled, gray-haired clerk seated there.

  If he were of a mind to smile, Simon would have been amused at the innocuous appearance of Bruce Carlton. The man’s benign exterior was more misleading than anyone dreamed, and it served him well.

  Not bothering with any explanation, Simon snapped, “Come into the office, Bruce.”

  Simon waited until Bruce followed him inside before closing the door behind him. He eyed Bruce coldly as he said, “I have a job for you that you shouldn’t find difficult to accomplish. You still visit Madame Chantalle’s for an occasional poker game in addition to the usual convenience she offers, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Good. Then you won’t find it difficult to get access to the upper hallway while you’re visiting one of the women there.”

  “Probably not.”

  “A man by the name of Drew Collins is recuperating from a leg wound in the bedroom at the end of the upper hallway. He’s presently incapacitated and as vulnerable as he’ll ever be. Dr. Wesley says he’ll be fit to travel in a few days, but I want you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Bruce squinted over the rims
of his wire-rimmed glasses as he said, “Just to be clear, boss, you mean—”

  Simon’s face reddened. “I mean I want you to make sure Drew Collins takes his last breath in that bed. I don’t care how you do it . . . just do it!”

  “Right. I understand.”

  “I want you to report back to me as soon as it’s done, do you understand?”

  “Right.”

  Bruce hesitated, and Simon inquired stiffly, “Do you have any questions?”

  “No.” Bruce shook his head.

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  Bruce shrugged. “Well, a fella can’t go to Madame Chantalle’s without money.”

  Simon took an impatient breath and turned toward his desk drawer. He opened the strongbox there, counted out a sum, and slapped the bills into Bruce’s hand as he asked, “Will that be enough to cover your expenses?”

  “That’s fine, boss.”

  “You only have a few days.”

  Bruce smiled. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  Drew fidgeted in bed and looked around at the room that had become all too familiar to him. The gaudy decoration had become increasingly abhorrent as the time he spent there stretched longer. If he were not still unsteady on his feet, if he did not know he would be repeating a mistake he had made before, he would get dressed and leave Madame Chantalle’s and Galveston right then.

  Or . . . was he just telling himself that?

  He was not oblivious to the debt he owed Chantalle for all but saving his life, even though she obviously preferred to keep her distance from him. Nor could he minimize the part Tricia had played. His debt to them both grew with every passing day. He intended to pay that debt when the time was right and Yankee justice no longer threatened him. Dr. Wesley had assured him that the infection in his leg had been routed, that he no longer suffered the threat of amputation, and that he was the only one who would truly know when his leg was strong enough to support him again.

  The ultimate decision was his.

  Drew frowned over that thought as he looked at the upholstered chair where Willie dozed fitfully. Willie had been a great help since arriving several days previously. His friend had assisted him as he walked a few steps further each day. Drew was well aware that he would soon be able to bid Galveston good-bye.